


Call This An Early Warning

by lammermoorian



Series: wincest drabs [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Space AU, not unrelated brothers, wincest only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the bars in the galaxy, they happened to walk into Sam's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call This An Early Warning

**Author's Note:**

> Space space space space space - _knowledge!_
> 
> Back when no one knew what Jupiter Ascending was, it inspired this thing. Some type of separated at birth wincest. Might have a sequel.

They get a lot of weird folk in the bar towards the end of the night. After the university kids all shuffle out, holding onto one another for balance, the bar is barely empty for more than five minutes before the seedier crowd files in - drug dealers, traffickers, alien whores and their pimps. It’s not exactly a fantastic neighborhood. Azazel used to send Sam into the back when he was younger after it got too late, sometimes with a slap upside the head if he asked too many questions. “Kid, let me tell you,” he used to say, gold eyes flashing, “You don’t wanna get mixed up with this crowd. What would I tell your uncle if I let a cute little thing like you get snapped up by a trader, eh?”

Sam used to think Azazel was kind. Ha.

Nowadays, he couldn’t give two fucks if Sam got felt up by a drunk patron, or propositioned by some shady weirdo in the corner. “The customer is always right,” Crowley likes to say, leering at Sam. Usually it’s just jokes. Horrible, poorly-intentioned jokes. Tonight, however, he’s halfway serious. “If he wants a piece of you, moose, maybe you should take him up on it. You know, make some extra cash and pay the boss back for giving you a job out of the kindness of his heart.”

“Hardy har har. Don’t you have some lowlife to swindle?”

“If you’re offering, darling.” He pours himself a glass of very expensive hyperwhiskey, winking at Sam, before sauntering over to the corner, where one of Azazel’s more reputable partners is holding court at a large, round table, already so drunk that his heads are knocking together accidentally. Crowley turns back and snaps his fingers, intent quite clear. More booze. At this rate, his little business party is going to deplete all of their legitimately good alcohol, leaving nothing but shit for the rest of the plebians. Sam sighs even as he grabs another bottle of bubbly. At least they’re tipping well.

The door buzzes open, and two humanoids walk inside.

At first glance, they look like a couple who’ve wandered into the wrong part of town. Sam wants to go over and shoo them both out, directing them to a much safer establishment. The male presenting one has a shiny black jacket, like old Earth-styled hide, just barely concealing the flash of a blaster hilt on his hip, and the kind of “I know I’m irresistible” swagger that Sam has seen a million times by now, on the faces of college students and mob men alike, while the female presenting one trails behind him, looking around with wide eyes, drinking it all in. And they are both totally, mind-numbingly beautiful. Just - perfect. Totally perfect. Wow. Sam’s rooted to the spot, clutching a bottle of champagne, before he manages to snap his jaw shut.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says to them once they reach the bar. “I’ve got to run this over to the gentleman’s table, I will be right back to service you - I mean! Take your order.” Whoops. Simple slip of the tongue. Before either of them can open their perfectly shaped mouths to comment, Sam bolts, ears burning, but eager to get back as fast as he can.

Of course, Crowley has to yank him aside before he can run back to the models at the counter. Leaning in close, he speaks lowly, breath tinged with shitty, knock-off cigarette smoke. “At attention, Samantha dear. You see those two that just came in?”

Who could possibly miss them. “Yeah?”

“Lady’s an android.”

Sam glances over his shoulder. The woman is sitting, stiff-backed, while the man sprawls all over his seat, fingers drumming on his thigh. “You think so?”

“I know so. Expensive one, too - her joints are almost totally silent. That kind of proofing is high-end, love, you don’t find that in the slums ‘round here.” There’s no rule against androids in public here, unlike some of the other systems. Androids practically make up half of the population on the port, what with all the ships getting outfitted for that new, semi-automatic Carolus system. There are even android students at the university - Sam’s got a couple tankards of refined Skanian oil in the back if they ever wander in and want to drink a little with their friends. Still, Azazel’s always told him to keep an eye on them. Programming could get wonky, they could snap, some limbs might get separated their owners.

“Is he an android, too?”

“Nah. The hair’s too dull. And you see that bowleg? All flesh. Probably her maker.”

“Or maybe he stole her.” Crowley grins.

“Such cynicism. You’re becoming more and more like me every day, and it warms my heart, truly.”

“I’d rather eat my own shit.”

He shoves Sam back towards the counter. “Just bleed them dry, idiot. They’re obviously new in town, so get yourself a nice tip by showing them a little hospitality - whatever that means to them!” Sam blushes all the way back to the counter, nearly tripping on a stray chair leg. The woman’s eyes snap to him, large and deep and cutting, and he blushes even harder.

Crowley is fucking with him. Of course Crowley is fucking with him. That’s what Crowley does, he fucks with Sam, he gets inside Sam’s head and plants ideas that are utterly impossible to eradicate. Like the idea of Sam having sex with the two most beautiful people this side of the Magellanic Cloud - not necessarily at the same time, although he wouldn’t say no.

“Sorry about that, my boss - “

“It’s cool,” says the guy with a wave of his hand. His android is stock still, watching him intently, eyes dragging up and down. Sam’s face is so red and hot, it could probably start a weak engine. “We’re in no rush.” His accent is unlike anything Sam’s ever heard, tangy and sweet over a deep growl, traveling straight to Sam’s groin. It’s all he can do to keep his voice steady.

“What can I get for you?”

“He’ll have water,” says his partner. Her voice is smooth and even, word-flow almost totally organic - she must be really high-end. Her synthetic carbon hair is a bright, shining red, and her skin is flawless, without a seam in sight. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Sam feels weak in the knees. The guy snorts.

“Fuck off, Anna. Whatever your best whiskey is, a double of that.” Sam glances over to the woman - Anna - but she’s already lost interest in him, back to scanning the rest of their patrons with that same, laser-focused intensity. He can see the track of her eyes, seeking out the exits, scrutinizing every dark corner, flicking left and right too quickly for a human to follow… she’s not just looking around, Sam realizes. She’s canvassing. She’s a bodyguard.

Great. Not only are those nearly impossible to deprogram, but she would probably rip Sam’s arm off for even looking at her employer wrong. All thoughts of sleeping with her slink out of the corners of his mind, to hide ashamed in the pile of Things That Shouldn’t Turn Sam On.

“Okay. Um. We don’t really have what you’d call ‘good’ whiskey here…” He says, rooting behind him for the bottle that Crowley had dipped into - no sense in opening a new one - and pouring him a glass. “Hyperwhiskey alright, Mx…?”

The man grimaces, rolls his shoulder, but doesn’t give his name. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

“Sir,” Anna turns sharply - not even a hint of a whir! - and Sam jumps, pulling back the bottle. “I really don’t think - “

“Can it. After the day I’ve had, I deserve some whiskey. You,” he points to Sam. “Keep pouring.”

If Sam is caught in the middle of another lover’s spat, he’s leaving.

But Anna voices no more opinion on the matter. The guy snatches up his whiskey like someone else is going to come and try to steal it from him, taking a long sip, the muscles in his throat rippling as he gulps it all down. Anna turns her head back towards him, finished with her survey of their fine establishment, cranial nerve wires sparking behind her nearly opaque synthetic retinas, her gaze literally and metaphorically electric. Sam swallows.

Sex with androids doesn’t really do it for Sam all that often, though he knows it does for plenty of other people, but even he would go to his knees for her if she asked him to. Put a blaster to his heart though, if he could go home with either of them, he’d pick her partner. His eyes are cutting in an entirely different way, piercing right through to the heart of him, like he can see Sam’s boner waking up in his pants, and his fingers are thick, so thick, large enough to span the entire width of his drink. God.

The man slams his glass down on the table, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Another, if you please,” he says, whiskey rough voice sending a shock all the way down Sam’s spine to his toes, into the floor. He knocks the second drink back just as easily as the first. Anna watches, impassively, radiating disapproval like the back engine of a Lindbergh Mk II.

“So…” Sam starts, coughs, reaching for a rag and a glass, anything to give his shaking hands something to do. “Are you here to look at the university? It’s sort of the only attraction on the spaceport.”

The guy brings his eyes up, gives Sam a quick once over, and then goes back for seconds, dragging his gaze over the line of Sam’s shoulder, licking his lips. “Well, I wouldn’t say the only attraction.” Sam almost drops his glass. Anna, very politely, rolls her eyes. “But yeah, kind of. We’re looking for one of the professors here. He’s an old buddy of my dad’s.”

“You might not have any luck; most of the professors don’t live on the spaceport.” The spaceport really isn’t residential. It’s one-stop shopping for pilots, mechanics, and prostitutes, and none of the professors at this university would ever be caught dead slumming it with the common folk. The spaceport offers only the cheapest of living expenses, for college students and dockworkers and all those with little to no income. It’s amazing Sam’s uncle let him work here for Azazel in the first place. “A lot of them commute from the nearby systems, or use holograms in their lectures.”

He sighs. “I don’t suppose the university gives out their addresses around here?”

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry. Blaxitel’s law still stands in this sector. Maybe I can point you in the direction of a student who knows, though. Who are you looking for?”

Android and humanoid share a silent look. There’s volumes of information passing between the two, a veritable library of body language and intent, compiled over years of being together. They’ve known each other a long, long time. Anna knows everything about his drinking habits, and he’s probably had to put her back together after a fight gone wrong. He didn’t steal her. He couldn’t have; she would have wrecked him if he tried. She’s been with him for years, probably. Who is he, to have something this advanced walking around beside him? Just who the fuck is Sam talking to?

Finally, Anna nods, and turns her back to him, letting them speak in whatever passes for privacy in their relationship. Must be a juicy secret. The man leans in close, beckoning with a finger, and Sam follows. Maybe the guy’s a mobster, looking to collect on a debt - or maybe he’s an explorer, and he needs some expert historical knowledge, like Indy in the old sagas. “Do you know,” he says lowly, eyes shifting left and right, “a guy named Elkins? Daniel Elkins? Professor of vampyrology?”

Sam leans back. Blinks. Um. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. He’s my uncle.”

Anna turns so quickly her hair whips around to slap her metallic shoulder. “What?”

“Yeah, uh, he’s my uncle.” Kind of. Took him in when his parents died, but that’s a little too much information. They sit back, looking at each other. Oh no. “What? What do you want with him?” Shit, he’s totally a mobster. He’s going to kidnap Sam and hold him hostage for ransom - handcuffs and gags and man is it hot in here? _Would the theater of Sam’s mind please shut up for one second?_

“What? Oh. Uh, nothing bad, obviously!” He laughs thinly, one shoulder shrugging. “I just, ah… I just need to talk to him, is all. It’s about my dad.”

“Who’s your dad?”

“Nobody,” he says quickly. “Nobody important. They were in the service together, I guess, in Koltran. Actually, ha, my dad didn’t want me to come - didn’t want to take advantage of an old army friendship, you know.”

Sam frowns. “My uncle did airship maintenance in Koltran. He wasn’t anywhere near the front line.” The man shifts in his seat, chewing his lip.

“Yeah, well, you know… they probably crossed paths once or twice… tight spaces and all…”

“Who are you?” It’s clear by now that subtlety is not his strong point. He stammers, blushes, flails, then turns to his android for help. “You tell me what’s going on right now, or I swear I’m calling Atmo Patrol - “

“Look,” Anna carefully, forcefully interrupts, reaching out to place a hand over Sam’s. Her hand is pale, small, and way, way heavier than it looks, trapping Sam in place. She could crush all the bones in his palm just by pressing down. The intent was clear - you will listen to what we have to say. “We understand that all of this is - “

"Extremely suspicious?"

"At best," mutters her companion.

"Worrisome," she continues, "and we know that we have given you very little reason to trust us." Try no reason at all. "But this is an extremely private matter, one that we need to handle with discretion and delicacy. Now, I can open myself up and show you my code, proving that everything I am saying is true, or you can simply take our word for it."

It must be serious, or else she wouldn’t put herself at risk like that. Her partner stares Sam down, one hand wandering towards his hip. A guy like that probably has something silent but deadly, something that would drop Sam in seconds, and everyone else in the bar, too. What kind of information is worth killing over, Sam wonders. What does his uncle know?

"…If you can’t tell me what you want, can you at least tell me who you’re working for?"

Anna looks toward her humanoid, and he nods after a moment. She taps her tattoo code on the inside of her wrist, and a small coat of arms shimmers into existence, a straight knife crossed with a book, against a red background. The Lorensiev Empire. Oh.

"Does this satisfy your curiosity?"

"Uh. Yeah. Um, thanks." She smiles at him then, white and blinding, and he feels sorry for ever doubting them. "So, are you guys private detectives or something?"

Her humanoid laughs, like a shot. “Or something.” He slides his glass towards Sam. “Hey, another? Oh, and call me Dean.”


End file.
